What Men Live By
by Thrice Seven Once Eleven
Summary: Crossover with What Men Live By.  The year is approximately 1887, and Aziraphale is getting steadily drunk in an unfamiliar pub - and then Michael shows up.


_**Чем люди живы**_

_**What men live by**_

Aziraphale and Crowley belong to Pratchett and Gaiman (may-they-live-forever); title lovingly stolen from Leo Tolstoy. Cyrillic from Wikipedia, Chinese idiom from About dot com. My time periods might be wonky because I'm not sure what year Чем люди живы was written, so I'm pretending it was written in1885.

Opera hat in one hand and book in the other, he found what he wanted in only a few minutes. It wasn't hard; his target was drinking itself into a stupor in a bar far from its usual haunts. At first he thought he must be mistaken; but no, there was no mistake, that was Aziraphale there in the corner with his head ducked over his glass, muttering to himself in a language that would have made a human's ears bleed. After watching for a moment, he sighed, said a little prayer, and slipped into the chair across from Aziraphale and waited for the other angel to notice him.

It didn't take long. Foggy blue eyes found his, then crossed once and refocused.

Aziraphale blinked a few times, wondering if he was seeing things or if the severe person in the pressed suit opposite him was actually there. He'd never hallucinated before just from drinking, and he shot a suspicious glance at the bottle by his hand.

He turned his gaze on the apparition, studied it for a few seconds before recognition hit. "What in Heaven - _Michael?_"

The archangel nodded a greeting, still wearing that little frown of disapproval. "Aziraphale."

Aziraphale waited, trying not to seem angry. He was drunker than he looked, which was pretty drunk, but not nearly as drunk as he had wanted to be when he had gone looking for a bar where Crowley wouldn't find him. Sure enough, it was three hours from the time they had agreed to meet up and Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

The demon finding him was one thing, but _Michael_ showing up halfway through his drinking spree was something else entirely. Aziraphale poured himself another glass, and, as an afterthought, pushed one across the table for Michael. Might as well be hospitable, he thought.

The line between Michael's eyebrows deepened, but he took the tumbler Aziraphale passed him. "This isn't what's in the bottle," he observed after a moment's consideration. What was in the bottle was a fairly inexpensive, unassuming wine. What was in their glasses was considerably stronger and fouler. Crowley had introduced Aziraphale to the brew some centuries prior.

"No," said Aziraphale. "No, it isn't. Cheers." And he drained it in a few gulps.

Michael watched him for a moment before following suit. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows as Michael reached for the bottle. "What? Did you think I can't drink?"

Aziraphale hadn't, but only shrugged. He didn't quite trust himself to speak yet. Michael materialized two smaller glasses and poured something clear and fairly odorless into them. "Here. Try this, see what you think."

Aziraphale sipped it tentatively and recoiled; Michael laughed openly. "No, no, you must do it in one go, here, observe."

Aziraphale imitated him, coughed when the liquid burned his throat and sinuses. "That's vile. What _is_ it?"

"Potato liquor, I think," said Michael. "From Imperial Russia. It takes some getting used to. Sober yourself, I wish to talk to you."

Aziraphale did so, more out of curiosity than anything else. "When on Earth did _you_ get used to something like this?"

Michael smiled. "That's partly what I wanted to talk to you about, but I find I am distracted by your present, ah, state." He lifted an eyebrow, and Aziraphale scowled.

"You mean the drinking. Well, I'm sorry, but I just –"

"I mean that you are drinking alone."

Aziraphale stared at him. Well, this was just a night of surprises, wasn't it? That was probably the closest any other angel had ever come to civilly addressing the situation with –

"The demon is looking for you," said Michael, and Aziraphale had to concentrate to keep his mouth from falling open. The archangel was regarding him with an expression he couldn't quite place. It looked almost like amusement, but the Michael that Aziraphale remembered had very little sense of humor. "If I didn't know better, I would say he's concerned. I'm surprised at you, Aziraphale," he added, a trace of reproach entering his voice and yes, that _was_ amusement Aziraphale was hearing under it. "It isn't like you to stand someone up, even a demon."

Aziraphale was trying to figure out how much trouble he was in when Michael continued, "Especially that one. I was under the impression that the two of you were, well – friends, after a fashion."

"After a fashion," Aziraphale echoed. Then he shook himself and figured he wanted his mind clear for whatever this conversation was turning into, and chased the rest of the alcohol out of his system. Visits from the higher-ups were rarely good, and never purely social. Was he no longer welcome in Heaven, was that why they hadn't summoned him? Was that why Michael had come personally?

He really wasn't in the mood to beat around the bush. Michael had come looking for him, and Aziraphale was feeling ornery and more than slightly depressed. Well, he would be blunt. "What are you doing here?"

"Talking to you," said Michael mildly, but Aziraphale was pretty sure he was dodging. "Discussing. Drinking. And what are you doing? Why are you hiding from Crawly?"

"I wanted to be left alone."

Michael did not seem to take offense. "It's the flood, isn't it? In Henan Province?"

"The Huang He, yes." Aziraphale sighed, and decided that being rude in the hopes of making people go away was not his 'thing.' For one thing, he was far too tired. "The water has finally gone down, but so many people have been left homeless and hungry, and it's winter already, more are dying every day. _Ai hong bian ye_." He paused, swallowed. "Of course you wouldn't – I quite like this world, you know that, but every few hundred years something goes horribly wrong and I just – I start wondering _why_."

Michael frowned. "Why what?"

"That's just the problem," said Aziraphale wretchedly. "I don't know. I was trying to figure it out when you showed up. The plan is a _good_ one, I _am_ certain of this. But I don't know how the pieces fit together, and I understand that it is not my place to know, that no one has that right, but people are in pain and they're dying and I cannot help all of them. Michael, so many of them are children."

"It will pass." Michael's face was a mask.

"It always does," Aziraphale said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I wish I could help them more than I do. I'm due to return to Henan in a fortnight. I shouldn't have left at all, but I – I had to breathe." He shook his head, rubbed a hand over his face. There was a bubbling noise nearby; when he looked up, he found that Michael was inexpertly pouring him a glass of wine. "Thank you."

"This is a good vintage?"

Aziraphale blinked at him again, abruptly aware of how extremely strange it was to be sitting here in an unfamiliar pub, drinking with _Michael_ of all people, and stranger still that Michael seemed to have become a rather decent sort of fellow. "Yes," he said, "yes, I suppose it is." He paused, asked again, "What are you doing here?"

How do you know vodka, but not wine, he did not say. How did you find me, why were you looking for me, how is it you're suddenly not half as abrasive as you used to be, he did not say. Small talk aside, Michael had found him for a reason, and Aziraphale wanted to know what it was. Something had happened; something had to have changed for Michael to have sought him out like this. He looked uncomfortable.

"I have been…troubled, of late."

Aziraphale did not respond, only sat while the archangel frowned down at his folded hands. Eons of experience had taught him that pressing Michael was a bad idea, and while this new Michael seemed less irritable than the old one, Aziraphale didn't want to risk interrupting his train of thought.

"There was a woman, a widow, and she was dying, and her children, they would surely have died without her. I was told to bring her soul to God."

Aziraphale waited while Michael's frown threatened to knot his eyebrows permanently in the middle of his forehead.

Finally Michael looked up at him. "I disobeyed. I was told to go and bring her soul to God, and I, I disobeyed." _Please understand_, he did not say to Aziraphale, who heard him anyway. "Her children. Her children would have frozen and died. I couldn't."

Aziraphale blinked and tried hard not to stare. Michael, disobey? The mind boggled.

"That – isn't like you." _Oh, very good_, said the voice in his head, _state the obvious, very helpful_.

"Yes, I know." Michael looked uncomfortable. "I think that's part of the reason why I'm here. I thought you might understand."

"God understands." The look that Michael sent him after that knee-jerk response nearly made Aziraphale shrink back into his seat. It was the first familiar thing Michael had done since he'd first showed up.

"Yes," he said again, after a pause, "I know He does. But His angels do not, and it is with them that I must interact on a daily basis. They only know that I was absent for a time, and returned changed."

"I think I know what you mean," said Aziraphale carefully, trying to think how to phrase things. Michael was deadly serious, and although it had been a while since Aziraphale had last spoken with another angel for any great length of time, he remembered the semi-formal speech patterns. He also remembered that Michael was far from the most eloquent of angels at the best of times, and thought it would be a good idea to help.

"There is a reason I remain here, on Earth, and do not seek out angelic company." He caught Michael's eye; the other nodded. Aziraphale had had this conversation with him before. "The other angels have not seen and done what I have, they can't possibly understand my decisions or my preferences. There are-" He hesitated only briefly. "-Others who understand me better, whom I understand better. Around whom I am more comfortable. It is as you say – God understands, but His angels do not." Michael nodded again, and Aziraphale leaned back in his chair. "For some reason, you have apparently become an exception to that rule. I'm not objecting, but frankly, it isn't like you, and I'm beginning to be worried."

Michael gave a very un-angelic snort of laughter and shook his head. "No, I only…this is difficult to explain. I spent six of the last eight years Earthbound."

Aziraphale stiffened, worst-case scenarios immediately flashing through his mind. "_Michael_."

Michael lifted a calm hand to stay the principality's concern. "It's all right, I'm all right. I wasn't, for a time, but I am redeemed, and have returned to Heaven." He smiled, looking slightly puzzled. "But the others don't quite understand, as you said, and I feel there's something missing, sometimes. I've never found Heaven lacking, before; I was always perfectly content. No one I've spoken to recently understands what I felt-in fact I think it frightens them. It was Uriel suggested I seek your counsel. I wanted to ask, why do you stay here?"

Aziraphale stammered; the question wasn't what he'd expected. "Well, I – I was assigned to Earth, you know, and I –"

Michael frowned. "Surely you know that we would grant your reassignment, should you ever request it. And…" He hesitated. He had not intended to bring this up, but it was Aziraphale's right to know the whole of the truth. "I should tell you that there are some who feel you ought to be reassigned regardless of your personal wishes. There are others who feel you ought to be cast out – in part because they feel you have turned from God, and in part due to the company you keep."

Aziraphale ran his hands over the rough wooden table, tracing the grain with shaking fingers. He had known of the disapproval, though not of the danger. "I stay here because I like it here," he said quietly. "Because this place is interesting, and because it is God's work. I have known humans who are closer to God than some angels I could name. This place is, to me, holier than Heaven and more beautiful. I was content in Heaven, as you were, but contentment is not the same as happiness." He looked up, and a note of warning crept into his voice. "And as for the company I keep, the demon is the only other immortal in a sea of ever-changing mortal beings, and not half as evil as you think he is. There _is_ good in him."

"You cannot redeem him," said Michael, very softly.

"I am not trying to redeem him." Aziraphale shook his head. "Michael, if God truly disapproved of my mere association with one of the Enemy, He would have put a stop to it long ago."

"You cannot know that."

"I _do_ know that," said Aziraphale, with a fierce intensity that killed Michael's reply on his lips. "My associations with Crowley have not brought me anywhere close to falling. I know you do not understand this, but trust me – I know what I'm doing."

"I wonder."

"Love is not a sin, Michael."

Michael sighed. "Be that as it may, he tries to shake your faith. I have watched him."

Aziraphale laughed aloud, at that. "The last time he tried that in earnest was over a thousand years ago. He knows he has no hope of felling me. He keeps me sane, Michael, he keeps me _holy_. His arguments only serve to strengthen my faith." He sighed. "You do not understand, and I cannot explain, but surely you aren't actually _worried_ about me."

Michael's silence told Aziraphale all he needed to know.

"Thank you," he said, genuinely surprised. "I had not expected that. _Will_ I be reassigned?"

"Not if I have any say in it," Michael said grimly. "You have my support. You belong here, for as long as Earth exists, any angel with half a grain of sense can see that. I for one," he added, grinning, "would like to see someone _try_ to reassign you. You would never stand for it."

Aziraphale laughed again. "That would depend on who gave the orders."

For a few minutes, they sat in silence, each puzzling over the other. "I don't understand," Aziraphale said eventually, finally letting his frustration show. "The last time I was discorporated, you tried to convince me to apply for reassignment. You implied that I might even fall, if I became too attached to things on Earth and continued to fraternize with the Enemy."

Michael had the grace to look abashed. "I remember. I didn't see what you saw in this place, but I think I understand slightly better now." The archangel smiled again. This was the rest of the reason why he had come, and so he slid something small and black and flat across the table.

"Bibliophile though you are, I doubt you've read this one. It was only written two years ago."

"_Čím človĕk žije_." Aziraphale thumbed through it, glanced at a few phrases, then looked sharply up at Michael and read from the beginning.

It didn't take him very long to finish. The story was short and simple, almost a children's folk tale, with simple characters and a simple plot and a simple, moral ending.

It was also true, and while the message was something Aziraphale had badly wanted to hear, the premise made his blood run cold. When he closed the book and looked back at Michael, he was very pale.

"You were human, during this time?" he asked.

Michael nodded. "It is an experience I do not wish to repeat, but I learned what I needed to and, actually, I find it extremely comforting. Humans are not the miserable animals I thought them to be; there is beauty in their world, and they have God in them, as you tried to tell me before." He hesitated, then added in a quieter voice, "I hope the story will help you, also. I hope it will remind you that they are still God's children. You need not weep for them." He looked meaningfully back to the bottle.

"He looks after His children," Aziraphale agreed. He did actually feel better. The idea of angels becoming fully human – even for a short time – was deeply unsettling, but Michael wasn't damaged by the experience, and it seemed to have humbled him slightly.

And the story – and the conversation, and Michael's unexpected reassurances – had done what Aziraphale had needed. The wandering, wondering feeling had gone, along with his burning desire to get horribly drunk.

"If you ever need a break from the monotony," he said as Michael rose to leave. He made the half-sentence into an offer, and Michael smiled.

"I will come to you," he finished. "No, keep the book," when Aziraphale stood and held it out to him. "I can acquire another, and I think you need it more than I."

He glanced out a tiny window at the darkening sky. "You should go. Your – usual drinking companion will be wondering where you are."

"And you're all right with that?" Aziraphale sounded doubtful, and knew it.

Michael did something with his shoulders. On a human it might have looked like a shrug. On the archangel it simply looked like a slightly awkward twitch, but Aziraphale knew what he meant. "I won't pretend to understand what you see in that creature, but I have not known him as you have. And He doesn't seem to mind it, so." It was a vastly different reply from the one he had given Aziraphale the last time they had met, and Aziraphale didn't press him lest he reconsider. He didn't think Michael would, but there was always a chance.

"So," said Aziraphale, nodding. "Just so. Thank you."

Michael only smiled, and disappeared.

Crowley was not happy.

"Where _were_ you?" he demanded as soon as Aziraphale stepped through the door to his shop. The angel lit a lamp; Crowley was scowling, sprawled in a chair by the unlit fireplace, his expensive wool coat thrown over Aziraphale's desk and his shirtsleeves rolled up. The blue-tinted spectacles he had taken to wearing were on the floor near his coat; evidently they had fallen out of a pocket. "You disappear without any warning whatsoever, spend half a year in China, and then you _stand me up?_ I _waited_ for you."

Aziraphale made a small, dubious noise. "Oh? How long?" He put Michael's book with his bibles. It felt like the right place for it.

"An hour and a half," said Crowley. His sharp smile turned in at the corners, and his eyes laughed.

"Lying serpent," said Aziraphale, but there was no rancor in it.


End file.
